"Why, I'll get you to take me, and I'll go to him, and tell him allabout it, and about all these horrid men; and I'll ask him if he can'tdo something or other to help me. They have dispensations and things,you know, that the Pope gives; and I want him to let me dispense withthese awful people."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Willoughby.

"I don't see any nonsense in it at all. I'm in earnest," said Minnie;"and I think it's a great shame."

"Nonsense!" said her sister again; "the only thing is for you to stayin your room."

"But I don't want to stay in my room, and I can't."

"Oh dear! what can I do with this child?" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby,whose patience was giving way.

Upon this Minnie went over and kissed her, and begged to be forgiven;and offered to do any thing that darling Kitty wanted her to do.

After this they talked a good deal over their difficulty, but withoutbeing able to see their way out of it more clearly.

That evening they were walking up and down the balcony of the house.It was a quadrangular edifice, and they had a suite of rooms on thesecond and third stories. They were on the balcony of the third story,which looked down into the court yard below. A fountain was in themiddle of this, and the moon was shining brightly.

Mrs. Willoughby looked, and saw the face of a man who was standing onthe other side of the fountain. His head rose above it, and his facewas turned toward them. He evidently did not know that he was seen,but was watching the ladies, thinking that he himself was unobserved.The moment that Mrs. Willoughby looked at the face she recognized it.

"Come in," said she to Minnie. And drawing her sister after her, shewent into the house.

"I knew the face; didn't you, Kitty dear?" said Minnie. "It's so easyto tell it. It was Scone Dacres. But what in the world does he want?Oh dear! I hope _he_ won't bother me."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE INTRUDER.

Judging from the Baron's own words, it will be perceived that hiscomprehension of the situation was a little different from the actualfact. His idea was that his last letter had been received by Minnie inEngland, whereupon she had been seized with such an ungovernablelonging to see him that she at once set out for Rome. She had not senthim any message, for she wished to surprise him. She had done soeffectually. He was not merely surprised; he was overwhelmed,overjoyed, intoxicated with joy. This was indeed kind, he thought--thetrue part of a fond girl, who thus cast aside all silly scruples, andfollowed the dictates of her own noble and loving heart.

Now the fact that he had made a partial failure of his first visit tohis charmer did not in the slightest degree disconcert him. He wasnaturally joyous, hilarious, and sanguine. His courage never faltered,nor could the brightness of his soul be easily dimmed. Adisappointment on one day gave him but little trouble. It was quicklythrown off, and then his buoyant spirit looked forward for betterfortune on the next day. The little disappointment which he had didnot, therefore, prevent him from letting his reason feast and his soulflow with Lord Hawbury; nor, when that festive season was over, did itprevent him from indulging in the brightest anticipations for thefollowing day.

On the afternoon of that day, then, the Baron directed his stepstoward the hotel where his charmer resided, his heart beating high,and the generous blood mantling his cheek, and all that sort of thing.But the Baron was not alone. He had a companion, and this companionwas an acquaintance whom he had made that morning. This companion wasvery tall, very thin, very sallow, with long, straggling locks ofrusty black hair, white neck-tie, and a suit of rather seedy blackclothes. In fact, it was the very stranger who had been arrestedalmost under his eyes as a Garibaldian. His case had come under thenotice of the Baron, who had visited him, and found him not to be aGaribaldian at all, but a fellow-countryman in distress--in short, noless a person than the Reverend Saul Tozer, an esteemed clergyman, whohad been traveling through Europe for the benefit of his health andthe enlargement of his knowledge. This fellow-countryman in distresshad at once been released by the Baron's influence; and, not contentwith giving him his liberty, he determined to take him under hisprotection, and offered to introduce him to society; all of whichgenerous offices were fully appreciated by the grateful clergyman.

The Baron's steps were first directed toward the place abovementioned, and the Reverend Saul accompanied him. On reaching it heknocked, and asked for Miss Fay.

"Not at home," was the reply.

"Oh, well," said he, "I'll go in and wait till she comes home. Comealong, parson, and make yourself quite at home. Oh, never mind, youngman," he continued to the servant; "I know the way. Come along,parson." And with these words he led the way into the reception-room,in which he had been before.

An elderly lady was seated there whom the Baron recognized as havingseen before. It was Lady Dalrymple, whose name was, of course, unknownto him, since he had only exchanged a few words on his former visit.But as he was naturally chivalrous, and as he was bent on makingfriends with all in the house, and as he was also in a glorious stateof good-will to the entire human race, he at once advanced to the ladyand made a low bow.

"How do you do, ma'am?"

Lady Dalrymple bowed good-naturedly, for she was good-natured to afault.

"I suppose you remember me, ma'am," said the Baron, in rather a loudvoice; for, as the lady was elderly, he had a vague idea that she wasdeaf--which impression, I may mention, was altogether unfounded--"Isuppose you remember me, ma'am? But I haven't had the pleasure of aregular introduction to you; so we'll waive ceremony, if you choose,and I'll introduce myself. I'm the Baron Atramonte, and this is myvery particular friend, the Reverend Saul Tozer."

"I'm happy to make your acquaintance," said Lady Dalrymple, with asmile, and not taking the Baron's offered hand--not, however, frompride, but simply from laziness--for she hated the bother, and didn'tconsider it good taste.

"I called here, ma'am," said the Baron, without noticing that LadyDalrymple had not introduced _herself_--"I called here, ma'am, to seemy young friend, Miss Minnie Fay. I'm very sorry that she ain't athome; but since I _am_ here, I rather think I'll just set down andwait for her. I s'pose you couldn't tell me, ma'am, about how longit'll be before she comes in?"

Lady Dalrymple hadn't any idea.

"All right," said the Baron; "the longer she keeps me waiting, themore welcome she'll be when she does come. That's all I've got tosay."

So the Baron handed a chair to the Reverend Saul, and then selectinganother for himself in a convenient position, he ensconced himself init as snugly as possible, and sat in silence for a few minutes. LadyDalrymple took no notice of him whatever, but appeared to be engrossedwith some trifle of needle-work.

After about five minutes the Baron resumed the task of making himselfagreeable.

He cleared his throat.

"Long in these parts, ma'am?" he asked.

"Not very long," said Lady Dalrymple, with her usual blandgood-nature.

"A nice place this," continued the Baron.

"Yes."

"And do you keep your health, ma'am?" inquired the Baron, with someanxiety.

"Thanks," said Lady Dalrymple; which observation set the Baron's mindwondering what she meant by that.

"Pray, ma'am," said he, after a pause, "might you be any relation to ayoung lady friend of mine that's staying here named Minnie Fay?"

"A little," said Lady Dalrymple; which remark set the Baron againwondering. And he was about to return to the charge with another andmore direct question, when his attention was arrested by the sound offootsteps on the stairs; so he sat bolt upright, and stared hard atthe door. There was the rustle of a dress. The Baron rose. So did theReverend Saul Tozer. The lady appeared. It was not Minnie. It was Mrs.Willoughby.

Now during the Baron's visit there had been some excitement up stairs.The ladies had told the servants that they were not at home to anycallers that day. They had found with consternation how carelessly theBaron had brushed aside their little cobweb regulation, and had heardhis voice as he strove to keep up an easy conversation with theiraunt. Whereupon an earnest debate arose. They felt that it was notfair to leave their aunt alone with the Baron, and that one of themshould go to the rescue. To Mrs. Willoughby's amazement, Minnie wasanxious to go. To this she utterly objected. Minnie insisted, and Mrs.Willoughby was in despair. In vain she reproached that most whimsicalof young ladies. In vain she reminded her of the Baron's rudeness on aformer occasion. Minnie simply reminded her that the Baron had savedher life. At last Mrs. Willoughby actually had to resort toentreaties, and thus she persuaded Minnie not to go down. So she wentdown herself, but in fear and trembling, for she did not know at whatmoment her voluble and utterly unreliable sister might take it intoher head to follow her.

The Baron, who had risen, full of expectation, stood looking at her,full of disappointment, which was very strongly marked on his face.Then he recollected that Minnie was "not at home," and that he mustwait till she did get home. This thought, and the hope that he wouldnot now have long to wait, brought back his friendly glow, and hiscalm and his peace and his good-will toward the whole human race,including the ladies in the room. He therefore bowed very low, and,advancing, he made an effort to shake hands; but Mrs. Willoughby hadalready known the dread pressure which the Baron gave, and evaded himby a polite bow. Thereupon the Baron introduced the Reverend SaulTozer.

The Baron took out his watch, looked at it, frowned, coughed, put itback, and then drummed with his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"Will it be long, ma'am," asked the Baron, "before Minnie gets back?"

"She is not out," said Mrs. Willoughby.

"Not out?"

"No."

"Why, the thundering fool of a servant went and told me that she wasnot at home!"

This was the information which Mrs. Willoughby had decided to give tothe Baron. Minnie had stipulated that his feelings should not be hurt;and this seemed to her to be the easiest mode of dealing with him.

"Indisposed!" cried the Baron.

"Yes."

"Oh dear! Oh, I hope, ma'am--I do hope, ma'am, that she ain't verybad. Is it any thing serious--or what?"

"Not _very_ serious; she has to keep her room, though."

"She ain't sick abed, I hope?"

"Oh no--not so bad as that!"

"Oh dear! it's all _me_, I know. _I'm_ to blame. She made thisjourney--the poor little pet!--just to see me; and the fatigue and theexcitement have all been too much. Oh, I might have known it! Oh, Iremember now how pale she looked yesterday! Oh dear! what'll I do ifany thing happens to her? Oh, do tell me--is she better?--did she passa good night?--does she suffer any pain?--can I do any thing forher?--will you take a little message from me to her?"

"She is quite easy now, thanks," said Mrs. Willoughby; "but we have tokeep her perfectly quiet; the slightest excitement may be dangerous."

Meanwhile the Reverend Saul had become wearied with sitting dumb, andbegan to look around for some suitable means of taking part in theconversation. As the Baron had introduced him to society, he felt thatit was his duty to take some part so as to assert himself both as aman, a scholar, and a clergyman. So, as he found the Baron wasmonopolizing Mrs. Willoughby, he gradually edged over till he camewithin ear-shot of Lady Dalrymple, and then began to work his waytoward a conversation.

"This, ma'am," he began, "is truly an interesting spot."

Lady Dalrymple bowed.

"Yes, ma'am. I've been for the past few days surveying the ruins ofantiquity. It is truly a soul-stirring spectacle."

"So I have heard," remarked Lady Dalrymple. cheerfully.

"Every thing around us, ma'am," continued the Reverend Saul, in adismal voice, "is subject to dissolution, or is actually dissolving.How forcible air the words of the Psalmist: 'Our days air as thegrass, or like the morning flower; when blasting winds sweep o'er thevale, they wither in an hour.' Yes, ma'am, I have this week stood inthe Roman Forum. The Coliseum, also, ma'am, is a wonderful place. Itwas built by the Flavian emperors, and when completed could holdeighty thousand spectators seated, with about twenty thousandstanding. In hot weather these spectators were protected from the raysof the sun by means of awnings. It is a mighty fabric, ma'am!"

"I should think so," said Lady Dalrymple.

"The arch of Titus, ma'am, is a fine ruin. It was originally built bythe emperor of that name to commemorate the conquest of Jerusalem. Thearch of Septimius Severus was built by the Emperor of that name, andthe arch of Constantino was built by the emperor of _that_ name. Theyare all very remarkable structures."

"I'm charmed to hear you say so."

"It's true, ma'am; but let me add, ma'am, that the ruins of thisancient city do not offer to my eyes a spectacle half so melancholy asthe great moral ruin which is presented by the modern city. For,ma'am, when I look around, what do I see? I behold the Babylon of theApocalypse! Pray, ma'am, have you ever reflected much on that?"

"Not to any great extent," said Lady Dalrymple, who now began to feelbored, and so arose to her feet. The Reverend Saul Tozer was justgetting on a full head of conversational steam, and was just fairlyunder way, when this sad and chilling occurrence took place. She roseand bowed to the gentlemen, and began to retreat.

All this time the Baron had been pouring forth to Mrs. Willoughby hisexcited interrogatories about Minnie's health, and had asked her totake a message. This Mrs. Willoughby refused at first.

"Oh no!" said she; "it will really disturb her too much. What shewants most is perfect quiet. Her health is really _very_ delicate, andI am _excessively_ anxious about her."

"But does she--does she--is she--can she walk about her own room?"stammered the Baron.

"A little," said Mrs. Willoughby. "Oh, I hope in a few weeks she maybe able to come down. But the very _greatest_ care and quiet areneeded, for she is in such a _very_ delicate state that we watch hernight and day."

"A few weeks!" echoed the Baron, in dismay. "Watch her night and day!"

"Oh, you know, it is the only chance for her recovery. She is _so_delicate."

The Baron looked at Mrs. Willoughby with a pale face, upon which therewas real suffering and real misery.

"Can't I do something?" he gasped. "Won't you take a message to her?It ought to do her good. Perhaps she thinks I'm neglecting her.Perhaps she thinks I ain't here enough. Tell her I'm ready to give upmy office, and even my title of nobility, and come and live here, ifit'll be any comfort to her."

"Oh, really, Sir, you _quite_ mistake her," said Mrs. Willoughby. "Ithas no reference to you whatever. It's a nervous affection,accompanied with general debility and neuralgia."

"Oh no, you don't know her," said the Baron, incredulously. "I _know_her. I know what it is. But she walks, don't she?"

"Yes, a little--just across the room; still, even that is too much.She is _very, very_ weak, and must be _quite_ kept free fromexcitement. Even the excitement of your visits is bad for her. Herpulse is--is--always--accelerated--and--she--I--Oh, dear me!"

While Mrs. Willoughby had been making up this last sentence she wasstartled by a rustling on the stairs. It was the rustle of a female'sdress. An awful thought occurred to her, which distracted her, andconfused her in the middle of her sentence, and made her scarce ableto articulate her words. And as she spoke them the rustle drew nearer,and she heard the sound of feet descending the stairs, until at lastthe footsteps approached the door, and Mrs. Willoughby, to her utterhorror, saw Minnie herself.

Now as to the Baron, in the course of his animated conversation withMrs. Willoughby, and in his excited entreaties to her to carry amessage up to the invalid, he had turned round with his back to thedoor. It was about the time that Lady Dalrymple had begun to beat aretreat. As she advanced the Baron saw her, and, with his usualpoliteness, moved ever so far to one side, bowing low as he did so.Lady Dalrymple passed, the Baron raised himself, and as Mrs.Willoughby was yet speaking, and had just reached the exclamationwhich concluded her last remark, he was astounded by the suddenappearance of Minnie herself at the door.

The effect of this sudden appearance was overwhelming. Mrs. Willoughbystood thunder-struck, and the Baron utterly bewildered. The latterrecovered his faculties first. It was just as Lady Dalrymple waspassing out. With a bound he sprang toward Minnie, and caught her inhis arms, uttering a series of inarticulate cries.

"Oh, Min! and you did come down, did you? And you couldn't stay upthere, could you? I wanted to send a message to you. Poor little Min!you're so weak. Is it any thing serious? Oh, my darling little Min!But sit down on this here seat. Don't stand; you're too weak. Whydidn't you send, and I'd have carried you down? But tell me now,honest, wasn't it _me_ that brought this on? Never mind, I'll neverleave you again."

This is the style which the gallant Baron adopted to express hissentiments concerning Minnie; and the result was that he succeeded ingiving utterance to words that were quite as incoherent as any thatMinnie herself, in her most rambling moods, had ever uttered.

The Baron now gave himself up to joy. He took no notice of any body.He sat by Minnie's side on a sofa, and openly held her hand. TheReverend Saul Tozer looked on with an approving smile, and surveyedthe scene like a father. Mrs. Willoughby's soul was on fire withindignation at Minnie's folly and the Baron's impudence. She was alsoindignant that her little conventional falsehoods had been suddenlydisproved by the act of Minnie herself. Yet she did not know what tosay, and so she went to a chair, and flung herself into it in fierceanger.

As for Minnie herself, she had come down to the Baron, and appearedrather to enjoy the situation. She talked about Rome and Naples, andasked him all about himself, and the Baron explained his wholesituation down to the minutest detail. She was utterly indifferent toher sister. Once or twice the Baron made a move to go, but did notsucceed. He finally settled himself down apparently for the rest ofthe day; but Mrs. Willoughby at last interposed. She walked forward.She took Minnie's hand, and spoke to her in a tone which she butseldom used.

"You silly child!" she cried. "Are you mad? What made you come down?You broke your promise!"

"Well--well--I couldn't help it, and he is so deliciously rude; and doyou know, Kitty dearest, I really begin to feel quite fond of him."

"Now listen, child. You shall never see him again."

"I don't see why not," whimpered Minnie.

"And I'm going to telegraph to papa. I wouldn't have theresponsibility of you another week for the world."

"Now, Kitty, you're horrid."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BARON'S ASSAULTS.

On the eventful afternoon when the Baron had effected an entrance intothe heart of the enemy's country, another caller had come there--oneequally intent and equally determined, but not quite so aggressive.This was the Count Girasole. The same answer was given to him whichhad been given to the Baron, but with far different effect. The Baronhad carelessly brushed the slight obstacle aside. To the Count it wasan impenetrable barrier. It was a bitter disappointment, too; for hehad been filled with the brightest hopes and expectations by thereception with which he had met on his last visit. That reception hadmade him believe that they had changed their sentiments and theirattitude toward him, and that for the future he would be received inthe same fashion. He had determined, therefore, to make the most ofthis favorable change, and so he at once repeated his call. This time,however, his hopes were crushed. What made it worse, he had seen theentrance of the Baron and the Reverend Saul, and knew by this thatinstead of being a favored mortal in the eyes of these ladies, he wasreally, in their estimation, placed below these comparative strangers.By the language of Lord Hawbury on his previous call, he knew that theacquaintance of the Baron with Mrs. Willoughby was but recent.

The disappointment of the Count filled him with rage, and revived allhis old feelings and plans and projects. The Count was not one whocould suffer in silence. He was a crafty, wily, subtle, schemingItalian, whose fertile brain was full of plans to achieve his desires,and who preferred to accomplish his aims by a tortuous path, ratherthan by a straight one. This repulse revived old projects, and he tookhis departure with several little schemes in his mind, some of which,at least, were destined to bear fruit afterward.

On the following day the Baron called once more. The ladies in themean time had talked over the situation, but were unable to see whatthey were to do with a man who insisted on forcing his way into theirhouse. Their treatment would have been easy enough if it had not beenfor Minnie. She insisted that they should not be unkind to him. He hadsaved her life, she said, and she could not treat him with rudeness.Lady Dalrymple was in despair, and Mrs. Willoughby at her wit's end,while Ethel, to whom the circumstance was made known, was roused by itfrom her sadness, and tried to remonstrate with Minnie. All herefforts, however, were as vain as those of her friends. Minnie couldnot be induced to take any decided stand. She insisted on seeing himwhenever he called, on the ground that it would be unkind not to.

"And will you insist on seeing Girasole also?" asked Mrs. Willoughby.

"I don't know. I'm awfully sorry for him," said Minnie.

"Well, then, Captain Kirby will be here next. Of course you will seehim?"

"I suppose so," said Minnie, resignedly.

"And how long do you think this sort of thing can go on? They'll meet,and blood will be shed."

"Oh dear! I'm afraid so."

"Then I'm not going to allow it. I've telegraphed to papa. He'll seewhether you are going to have your own way or not."

"I'm sure I don't see what dear papa can do."

"He won't let you see those horrid men."

"He won't be cruel enough to lock me up in the house. I do wish hewould come and take me away. I don't want them. They're all horrid."

Minnie's very peculiar situation was certainly one which required aspeedy change. The forced entrance of the Baron had thrownconsternation into the family. Ethel herself had been roused, and tooka part in the debate. She began to see Minnie in a new light, andHawbury's attention to her began to assume the appearance of a verymournful joke. To her mind Minnie was now the subject of desperateattention from five men.

Thus:

1. Lord Hawbury.

2. Count Girasole.

3. Scone Dacres.

4. Baron Atramonte.

5. Captain Kirby, of whom Mrs. Willoughby had just told her.

And of these, four had saved her life, and consequently had thestrongest possible claims on her.

And the only satisfaction which Ethel could gain out of this was thethought that Hawbury, at least, had not saved Minnie's life.

And now to proceed.

The Baron called, as has been said, on the following day. This time hedid not bring the Reverend Saul with him. He wished to see Minniealone, and felt the presence of third persons to be rather unpleasant.

On reaching the place he was told, as before, that the ladies were notat home.

Now the Baron remembered that on the preceding day the servant hadsaid the same, while all the time the ladies were home. He wascharitably inclined to suppose that it was a mistake, and not adeliberate lie; and, as he was in a frame of good-will to mankind, headopted this first theory.

So the Baron brushed by the servant, and went in. He entered the room.No one was there. He waited a little while, and thought. He was tooimpatient to wait long. He could not trust these lying servants. So hedetermined to try for himself. Her room was up stairs, somewhere inthe story above.

So he went out of the room, and up the stairs, until his head was on alevel with the floor of the story above. Then he called:

_"Min!"_

No answer.

"MIN!" in a louder voice.

No answer.

"MIN! it's ME!" still louder.

No answer.

_"MIN!"_ a perfect yell.

At this last shout there was a response. One of the doors opened, anda lady made her appearance, while at two other doors appeared twomaids. The lady was young and beautiful, and her face was stern, andher dark eyes looked indignantly toward the Baron.

"Who are you?" she asked, abruptly; "and what do you want?"

"Me? I'm the Baron Atramonte; and I want Min. Don't you know where sheis?"

"Who?"

"Min."

"Min?" asked the other, in amazement.

"Yes. My Min--Minnie, you know. Minnie Fay."

At this the lady looked at the Baron with utter horror.

"I want her."

"She's not at home," said the lady.

"Well, really, it's too bad. I must see her. Is she out?"

"Yes."

"Really? Honor bright now?"

The lady retired and shut the door.

"Well, darn it all, you needn't be so peppery," muttered the Baron. "Ididn't say any thing. I only asked a civil question. Out, hey? Well,she must be this time. If she'd been in, she'd have made herappearance. Well, I'd best go out and hunt her up. They don't seem tome altogether so cordial as I'd like to have them. They're just aleetle too 'ristocratic."

With these observations to himself, the Baron descended the stairs,and made his way to the door. Here he threw an engaging smile upon theservant, and made a remark which set the other on the broad grin forthe remainder of the day. After this the Baron took his departure.

The Baron this time went to some stables, and reappeared in a shorttime mounted upon a gallant steed, and careering down the Corso. Indue time he reached the Piazza del Popolo, and then he ascended thePincian Hill. Here he rode about for some time, and finally hisperseverance was rewarded. He was looking down from the summit of thehill upon the Piazza below, when he caught sight of a barouche, inwhich were three ladies. One of these sat on the front seat, and herwhite face and short golden hair seemed to indicate to him the one hesought.

In an instant he put spurs to his horse, and rode down the hill asquick as possible, to the great alarm of the crowds who were going upand down. In a short time he had caught up with the carriage. He wasright. It was the right one, and Minnie was there, together with LadyDalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby. The ladies, on learning of hisapproach, exhibited no emotion. They were prepared for this, andresigned. They had determined that Minnie should have no moreinterviews with him indoors; and since they could not imprison heraltogether, they would have to submit for the present to his advances.But they were rapidly becoming desperate.

Lord Hawbury was riding by the carriage as the Baron came up.

"Hallo!" said he to the former. "How do? and _how_ are you all? Why,I've been hunting all over creation. Well, Minnie, how goes it? Feellively? That's right. Keep out in the open air. Take all the exerciseyou can, and eat as hard as you can. You live too quiet as a generalthing, and want to knock around more. But we'll fix all that, won'twe, Min, before a month of Sundays?"

The advent of the Baron in this manner, and his familiar address toMinnie, filled Hawbury with amazement. He had been surprised atfinding him with the ladies on the previous day, but there was nothingin his demeanor which was at all remarkable. Now, however, he noticedthe very great familiarity of his tone and manner toward Minnie, andwas naturally amazed. The Baron had not confided to him his secret,and he could not understand the cause of such intimacy between therepresentatives of such different classes. He therefore listened withinexpressible astonishment to the Baron's language, and to Minnie'sartless replies.

Minnie was sitting on the front seat of the barouche, and was alone inthat seat. As the gentlemen rode on each side of the carriage her facewas turned toward them. Hawbury rode back, so that he was beside LadyDalrymple; but the Baron rode forward, on the other side, so as tobring himself as near to Minnie as possible. The Baron was exceedinglyhappy. His happiness showed itself in the flush of his face, in theglow of his eyes, and in the general exuberance and all-embracingswell of his manner. His voice was loud, his gestures demonstrative,and his remarks were addressed by turns to each one in the company.The others soon gave up the attempt to talk, and left it all to theBaron. Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby exchanged glances ofdespair. Hawbury still looked on in surprise, while Minnie remainedperfectly calm, perfectly self-possessed, and conversed with her usualsimplicity.

As the party thus rode on they met a horseman, who threw a rapidglance over all of them. It was Girasole. The ladies bowed, and Mrs.Willoughby wished that he had come a little before, so that he couldhave taken the place beside the carriage where the Baron now was. Butthe place was now appropriated, and there was no chance for the Count.Girasole threw a dark look over them, which rested more particularlyon Hawbury. Hawbury nodded lightly at the Count, and didn't appear totake any further notice of him. All this took up but a few moments,and the Count passed on.

Shortly after they met another horseman. He sat erect, pale, sad, witha solemn, earnest glow in his melancholy eyes. Minnie's back wasturned toward him, so that she could not see his face, but his eyeswere fixed upon Mrs. Willoughby. She looked back at him and bowed, asdid also Lady Dalrymple. He took off his hat, and the carriage rolledpast. Then he turned and looked after it, bareheaded, and Minniecaught sight of him, and smiled and bowed. And then in a few momentsmore the crowd swallowed up Scone Dacres.

The Baron thus enjoyed himself in a large, exuberant fashion, andmonopolized the conversation in a large, exuberant way. He outdidhimself. He confided to the ladies his plans for the regeneration ofthe Roman Church and the Roman State. He told stories of hisadventures in the Rocky Mountains. He mentioned the state of hisfinances, and his prospects for the future. He was as open, as free,and as communicative as if he had been at home, with fond sisters andadmiring brothers around him. The ladies were disgusted at it all; andby the ladies I mean only Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple. ForMinnie was not--she actually listened in delight. It was notconventional. Very well. Neither was the Baron. And for that matter,neither was she. He was a child of nature. So was she. His rudeness,his aggressiveness, his noise, his talkativeness, his egotism, hisconfidences about himself--all these did not make him so verydisagreeable to her as to her sister and aunt.

So Minnie treated the Baron with the utmost complaisance, and Hawburywas surprised, and Mrs. Willoughby and Lady Dalrymple were disgusted;but the Baron was delighted, and his soul was filled with perfect joy.Too soon for him was this drive over. But the end came, and theyreached the hotel. Hawbury left them, but the Baron lingered. The spotwas too sweet, the charm too dear--he could not tear himself away.

In fact, he actually followed the ladies into the house.

"I think I'll just make myself comfortable in here, Min, till you comedown," said the Baron. And with these words he walked into thereception-room, where he selected a place on a sofa, and composedhimself to wait patiently for Minnie to come down.

So he waited, and waited, and waited--but Minnie did not come. At lasthe grew impatient. He walked out, and up the stairs, and listened.

He heard ladies' voices.

He spoke.

_"Min!"_

No answer.

"MIN!" louder.

No answer.

"MIN! HALLO-O-O-O!"

No answer.

_"MIN!"_ a perfect shout.

At this a door was opened violently, and Mrs. Willoughby walked out.Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes glanced fire.

"Sir," she said, "this is intolerable! You must be intoxicated. Goaway at once, or I shall certainly have you turned out of the house."

And saying this she went back, shut the door, and locked it.

The Baron was thunder-struck. He had never been treated so in hislife. He was cut to the heart. His feelings were deeply wounded.

"Darn it!" he muttered. "What's all this for? I ain't been doing anything."

He walked out very thoughtfully. He couldn't understand it at all. Hewas troubled for some time. But at last his buoyant spirit rosesuperior to this temporary depression. To-morrow would explain all, hethought. Yes, to-morrow would make it all right. To-morrow he wouldsee Min, and get her to tell him what in thunder the row was. She'dhave to tell, for he could never find out. So he made up his mind tokeep his soul in patience.

That evening Hawbury was over at the Baron's quarters, by specialinvitation, and the Baron decided to ask his advice. So in the courseof the evening, while in the full, easy, and confidential mood thatarises out of social intercourse, he told Hawbury his wholestory--beginning with the account of his first meeting with Minnie,and his rescue of her, and her acceptance of him, down to this veryday, when he had been so terribly snubbed by Mrs. Willoughby. To allthis Hawbury listened in amazement. It was completely new to him. Hewondered particularly to find another man who had saved the life ofthis quiet, timid little girl.

The Baron asked his advice, but Hawbury declined giving any. He saidhe couldn't advise any man in a love-affair. Every man must trust tohimself. No one's advice could be of any avail. Hawbury, in fact, waspuzzled, but he said the best he could. The Baron himself was fully ofHawbury's opinion. He swore that it was truth, and declared the manthat followed another's advice in a love-affair was a "darned foolthat didn't deserve to win his gal."

There followed a general conversation on things of a different kind.The Baron again discoursed on church and state. He then exhibited somecuriosities. Among other things a skull. He used it to hold histobacco. He declared that it was the skull of an ancient Roman. On theinside was a paper pasted there, on which he had written thefollowing:

"Oh, I'm the skull of a Roman bold That fit in the ancient war; From East to West I bore the flag Of S.P.Q. and R.

"In East and West, and North and South, We made the nations fear us-- Both Nebuchadnezzar and Hannibal, And Pharaoh too, and Pyrrhus.

"We took their statutes from the Greeks, And lots of manuscripts too; We set adrift on his world-wide tramp The original wandering Jew.

"But at last the beggarly Dutchman came, With his lager and sauerkraut; And wherever that beggarly Dutchman went He made a terrible rout.

"Wo ist der Deutscher's Vaterland? Is it near the ocean wild? Is it where the feathery palm-trees grow? Not there, not there, my child.

"But it's somewhere down around the Rhine; And now that Bismarck's come, Down goes Napoleon to the ground, And away goes the Pope from Rome!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

"HE SAVED MY LIFE."

"I can't bear this any longer!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby. "Here youare getting into all sorts of difficulties, each one worse than theother. I'm sure I don't see why you should. You're very quiet, Minniedearest, but you have more unpleasant adventures than any person Iever heard of. You're run away with on horseback, you're shipwrecked,you're swept down a precipice by an avalanche, and you fall into thecrater of a burning volcano. Every time there is some horrid man whosaves you, and then proposes. As for you, you accept them all withequal readiness, one after another, and what is worse, you won't giveany of them up. I've asked you explicitly which of them you'll giveup, and you actually refuse to say. My dear child, what are youthinking of? You can't have them all. You can't have any of them. Noneof them are agreeable to your family. They're horrid. What are yougoing to do? Oh, how I wish you had dear mamma to take care of you!But she is in a better world. And here is poor dear papa who can'tcome. How shocked he would be if he knew all. What is worst, here isthat dreadful American savage, who is gradually killing me. Hecertainly will be my death. What _am_ I to do, dear? Can't youpossibly show a little sense yourself--only a little, dear--and havesome consideration for your poor sister? Even Ethel worries about you,though she has troubles of her own, poor darling; and aunty is reallyquite ill with anxiety. What _are_ we going to do? I know one thing._I'm_ not going to put up with it. My mind is made up. I'll leave Romeat once, and go home and tell papa."

"Well, you needn't be so awfully kind to them all. That's whatencourages them so. It's no use for me to try to keep them away if youmake them all so welcome. Now there's that dreadful Italian. I'mpositive he's going to get up some unpleasant plot. These Italians areso very revengeful. And he thinks you're so fond of him, and I'm soopposed. And he's right, too. You always act as if you're fond of him,and all the rest. As to that terrible American savage, I'm afraid tothink of him; I positively am."

"Well, you needn't be so awfully unkind to him. He saved my life."

"That's no reason why he should deprive me of mine, which he will doif he goes on so much longer."

"You were very, very rude to him, Kitty," said Minnie, severely, "andvery, very unkind--"

"I intended to be so."

"I really felt like crying, and running out and explaining things."

"I know you did, and ran back and locked the door. Oh, you wretchedlittle silly goose, what _am_ I _ever_ to do with such a child as youare! You're really not a bit better than a baby."

This conversation took place on the day following the Baron's lasteventful call. Poor Mrs. Willoughby was driven to desperation, and layawake all night, trying to think of some plan to baffle the enemy, butwas unsuccessful; and so she tried once more to have some influenceover Minnie by a remonstrance as sharp as she could give.

"He's an American savage. I believe he's an Indian."

"I'm sure I don't see any thing savage in him. He's as gentle and askind as he can be. And he's so awfully fond of me."

"Think how he burst in here, forcing his way in, and taking possessionof the house. And then poor dear aunty! Oh, how she _was_ shocked andhorrified!"

"It's because he is so _awfully_ fond of me, and was so perfectly_crazy_ to see me."

"And then, just as I was beginning to persuade him to go away quietly,to think of you coming down!"

"Well, I couldn't bear to have him so sad, when he saved my life, andso I just thought I'd show myself, so as to put him at ease."

"A pretty way to show yourself--to let a great, horrid man treat youso."

"Oh dear! was there ever such a child! Why, Minnie darling, you mustknow that such things are very, very ill-bred, and very, veryindelicate and unrefined. And then, think how he came forcing himselfupon us when we were driving. Couldn't he see that he wasn't wanted?No, he's a savage. And then, how he kept giving us all a history ofhis life. Every body could hear him, and people stared so that it wasreally quite shocking."

"Oh, that's because he is so very, very frank. He has none of thedeceit of society, you know, Kitty darling."

"Deceit of society! I should think not. Only think how he actedyesterday--forcing his way in and rushing up stairs. Why, it'sactually quite frightful. He's like a madman. We will have to keep allthe doors locked, and send for the police. Why, do you know, Ethelsays that he was here before, running about and shouting in the sameway: 'Min!' 'Min!' 'Min!'--that's what the horrid wretch calls you--'Min! it's me.' 'Come, Min!'"

At this Minnie burst into a peal of merry, musical laughter, andlaughed on till the tears came to her eyes. Her sister looked moredisgusted than ever.

"He's such a boy," said Minnie; "he's just like a boy. He's so awfullyfunny. If I'm a child, he's a big boy, and the awfullest, funniest boyI ever saw. And then he's _so_ fond of me. Why, he worships me. Oh,it's awfully nice."

"A boy! A beast, you mean--a horrid savage. What _can_ I do? I mustsend for a policeman. I'll certainly have the doors all locked. Andthen we'll all be prisoners."

"Well, then, it'll all be your own fault, for _I_ don't want to haveany doors locked."

"Well, I do wish he would," said Minnie, gravely. "I wish somebodywould, for then it would put a stop to all this worry, and I reallydon't know what else ever will. Do _you_, now, Kitty darling?"

Mrs. Willoughby turned away with a gesture of despair.

An hour or two after some letters were brought in, one of which wasaddressed to

Miss FAY,

_Poste Restante_,

_Roma._

Minnie opened this, and looked over it with a troubled air. Then shespoke to her sister, and they both went off to Minnie's room.

"Who do you think this is from?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know! Of course it's some more trouble."

"It's from Captain Kirby."

"Oh, of course! And of course he's here in Rome?"

"No, he isn't."

"What! Not yet?"

"No; but he wrote this from London. He has been to the house, andlearned that we had gone to Italy. He says he has sent off letters tome, directed to every city in Italy, so that I may be sure to get it.Isn't that good of him?"

"Well?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, repressing an exclamation of vexation.

"Well, he says that in three days he will leave, and go first to Rome,as he thinks we will be most likely to be there this season. And so,you see, he's coming on; and he will be here in three days, you know."

"Minnie," said her sister, after some moments' solemn thought.

"Well, Kitty darling?"

"Do you ever think?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like one of these gentlemen of yours to blow one of theothers' brains out, or stab him, or any thing of that sort?"

"How shocking you are, Kitty dear! What a dreadful question!"

"Well, understand me now. One of them _will_ do that. There will betrouble, and your name will be associated with it."

"Well," said Minnie, "I know who _won't_ be shot."

"Who?"

"Why, Rufus K. Gunn," said she, in the funny, prim way in which shealways pronounced that name. "If he finds it out, he'll drive all theothers away."

"And would you like that?"

"Well, you know, he's awfully fond of me, and he's so like a boy: andif I'm such a child, I could do better with a man, you know, that'slike a boy, you know, than--than--"

"Nonsense! He's a madman, and you're a simpleton, you little goose."

"Well, then, we must be well suited to one another," said Minnie.

"Now, child, listen," said Mrs. Willoughby, firmly. "I intend to put astop to this. I have made up my mind positively to leave Rome, andtake you home to papa. I'll tell him all about it, put you under hiscare, and have no more responsibility with you. I think he'd bettersend you back to school. I've been too gentle. You need a firm hand.I'll be firm for a few days, till you can go to papa. You need notbegin to cry. It's for your own good. If you're indulged any more,you'll simply go to ruin."

Mrs. Willoughby's tone was different from usual, and Minnie wasimpressed by it. She saw that her sister was resolved. So she stole upto her and twined her arms about her and kissed her.

"There, there," said her sister, kissing her again, "don't look sosad, Minnie darling. It's for your own good. We must go away, or elseyou'll have another of those dreadful people. You must trust to menow, dearest, and not interfere with me in anyway."

Minnie started, and looked at Mrs. Willoughby, and saw in her face afixed resolution.

"No, never!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby. "I am going to take you back toEngland. I'm afraid to take any railroad or steamboat. I'll hire acarriage, and we'll all go in a quiet way to Florence. Then we cantake the railroad to Leghorn, and go home by the way of Marseilles. Noone will know that we've gone away. They'll think we have gone on anexcursion. Now we'll go out driving this morning, and this afternoonwe must keep the outer door locked, and not let any one in. I supposethere is no danger of meeting him in the morning. He must be on dutythen."

"But mayn't I see him at all before we go?"

"No!"

"Just once--only once?"

"No, not once. You've seen that horrid man for the last time."

Minnie again looked at her sister, and again read her resolution inher face. She turned away, her head dropped, a sob escaped from her,and then she burst into tears.

Mrs. Willoughby left the room.

CHAPTER XIX.

JEALOUSY.

Lord Hawbury had come to Rome for the sole purpose of watching overhis friend Scone Dacres. But he had not found it so easy to do so. Hisfriend kept by himself more than he used to, and for several daysHawbury had seen nothing of him. Once while with the ladies he had methim, and noticed the sadness and the gloom of his brow. He saw by thisthat he was still a prey to those feelings the exhibition of which hadalarmed him at Naples, and made him resolve to accompany him here.

A few days afterward, while Hawbury was in his room, his friendentered. Hawbury arose and greeted him with unfeigned joy.

"Well, old man," he said, "you've kept yourself close, too. What haveyou been doing with yourself? I've only had one glimpse of you for anage. Doing Rome, hey? Antiquities, arts, churches, palaces, and allthat sort of thing, I suppose. Come now, old boy, sit down and give anaccount of yourself. Have a weed? Here's Bass in prime order. Lightup, my dear fellow, and let me look at you as you compose your manlyform for a friendly smoke. And don't speak till you feel inclined."

Dacres took his seat with a melancholy smile, and selecting a cigar,lighted it, and smoked in silence for some time.

"Who was that Zouave fellow?" he asked at length: "the fellow that Isaw riding by the carriage the other day?"

"That--oh, an old friend of mine. He's an American named Gunn. He'sjoined the Papal Zouaves from some whim, and a deuced good thing it isfor them to get hold of such a man. I happened to call one day, andfound him with the ladies."

"The ladies--ah!" and Dacres's eyes lighted up with a bad, hard light."I suppose he's another of those precious cavaliers--the scum of alllands--that dance attendance on my charming wife."

"Oh, see here now, my dear fellow, really now," said Hawbury, "none ofthat, you know. This fellow is a friend of _mine_, and one of the bestfellows I ever saw. You'd like him, old chap. He'd suit you."

"Yes. I know your weakness, you know; but this is an old affair. Idon't want to violate confidence, but--"

Dacres looked hard at his friend and breathed heavily. He wasevidently much excited.

"But what?" he said, hoarsely.

"Well, you know, it's an old affair. It's the young one, youknow--Miss Fay. He rather affects her, you know. That's about it."

"Miss Fay?"

"Yes; your child-angel, you know. But it's an older affair than yours;it is, really; so don't be giving way, man. Besides, his claims on herare as great as yours; yes, greater too. By Jove!"

"Miss Fay! Oh, is that all?" said Dacres, who, with a sigh of infiniterelief, shook off all his late excitement, and became cool once more.

Hawbury noted this very thoughtfully.

"You see," said Dacres, "that terrible wife of mine is so cursedlybeautiful and fascinating, and so infernally fond of admiration, thatshe keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels. And so I didn't knowbut that this was some new admirer. Oh, she's a deep one! Her newstyle, which she has been cultivating for ten years, has made her looklike an angel of light. Why, there's the very light of heaven in hereyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, but gentleness andpurity and peace. Oh, had she but been what she now seems! Oh, if evennow I could but believe this, I would even now fling my memories tothe winds, and I'd lie down in the dust and let her trample on me, ifshe would only give me that tender and gentle love that now lurks inher face. Good Heavens! can such a change be possible? No; it'simpossible! It can't be! Don't I know her? Can't I remember her? Is mymemory all a dream? No, it's real; and it's marked deep by this scarthat I wear. Never till that scar is obliterated can that womanchange."

Dacres had been speaking, as he often did now, half to himself; and ashe ended he rubbed his hand over the place where the scar lay, asthough to soothe the inflammation that arose from the rush of angryblood to his head.

"Well, dear boy, I can only say I wish from my heart that her naturewas like her face. She's no favorite of mine, for your story has mademe look on her with your eyes, and I never have spoken to her exceptin the most distant way; but I must say I think her face has in it agood deal of that gentleness which you mention. Miss Fay treats herquite like an elder sister, and is deuced fond of her, too. I can seethat. So she can't be very fiendish to her. Like loves like, you know,and the one that the child-angel loves ought to be a little of anangel herself, oughtn't she?"

Dacres was silent for a long time.

"There's that confounded Italian," said he, "dangling forever at herheels--the devil that saved her life. He must be her accepted lover,you know. He goes out riding beside the carriage."

"Oh, that's her art. She's so infernally deep. Do you think she'd letthe world see her feelings? Never. Slimy, Sir, and cold and subtle andvenomous and treacherous--a beautiful serpent. Aha! isn't that the wayto hit her off? Yes, a beautiful, malignant, venomous serpent, withfascination in her eyes, and death and anguish in her bite. But sheshall find out yet that others are not without power. Confound her!"

"Well, now, by Jove! old boy, I think the very best thing you can dois to go away somewhere, and get rid of these troubles."

"Go away! Can I go away from my own thoughts? Hawbury, the trouble isin my own heart. I must keep near her. There's that Italian devil. Heshall not have her. I'll watch them, as I have watched them, till Ifind a chance for revenge."

"You have watched them, then?" asked Hawbury, in great surprise.

"Yes, both of them. I've seen the Italian prowling about where shelives. I've seen her on her balcony, evidently watching for him."

"But have you seen any thing more? This is only your fancy."

"Fancy! Didn't I see her herself standing on the balcony looking down.I was concealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she couldn't see me.She turned her face, and I saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beautywhich she has cultivated so wonderfully. I swear it seemed like theface of an angel, and I could have worshiped it. If she could haveseen my face in that thick shadow she would have thought I was anadorer of hers, like the Italian--ha, ha!--instead of a pursuer, andan enemy."

"Well, I'll be hanged if I can tell myself which you are, old boy;but, at any rate, I'm glad to be able to state that your trouble willsoon be over."

"How's that?"

"She's going away."

"Going away!"

"Yes."

"She! going away! where?"

"Back to England."

"Back to England! why, she's just come here. What's that for?"

"I don't know. I only know they're all going home. Well, you know,holy week's over, and there is no object for them to stay longer."

"Going away! going away!" replied Dacres, slowly. "Who told you?"

"Miss Fay."

"Oh, I don't believe it."

"There's no doubt about it, my dear boy. Miss Fay told me explicitly.She said they were going in a carriage by the way of CivitaCastellana."

"What are they going that way for? What nonsense! I don't believe it."

"Oh, it's a fact. Besides, they evidently don't want it to be known."

"What's that?" asked Dacres, eagerly.

"I say they don't seem to want it to be known. Miss Fay told me in herchildish way, and I saw that Mrs. Willoughby looked vexed, and triedto stop her."

"Tried to stop her! Ah! Who were there? Were you calling?"

"Oh no--it was yesterday morning. I was riding, and, to my surprise,met them. They were driving--Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Fay, youknow--so I chatted with them a few moments, or rather with Miss Fay,and hoped I would see them again soon, at some _fete_ or other, whenshe told me this."

"And my wife tried to stop her?"

"Yes."

"And looked vexed?"

"Yes."

"Then it was some secret of _hers. She_ has some reason for keepingdark. The other has none. Aha! don't I understand her? She wants tokeep it from _me_. She knows you're my friend, and was vexed that youshould know. Aha! she dreads my presence. She knows I'm on her track.She wants to get away with her Italian--away from my sight. Aha! thetables are turned at last. Aha! my lady. Now we'll see. Now take yourItalian and fly, and see how far you can get away from me. Take him,and see if you can hold him. Aha! my angel face, my mild, soft eyes oflove, but devil's heart--can not I understand it all? I see throughit. I've watched, you. Wait till you see Scone Dacres on your track!"

"What's that? You don't really mean it?"cried Hawbury.

"Yes, I do."

"Will you follow her?"

"Yes, I will."

"What for? For a vague fancy of your jealous mind?"

"It isn't a fancy; it's a certainty. I've seen the Italian doggingher, dodging about her house, and riding with her. I've seen herlooking very much as if she were expecting him at her balcony. Is allthat nothing? She's seen me, and feels conscience-stricken, and longsto get away where she may be free from the terror of my presence. ButI'll track her. I'll strike at her--at her heart, too; for I willstrike through the Italian."

"By Jove!"

"I will, I swear!" cried Dacres, gloomily.

"You're mad, Dacres. You imagine all this. You're like a madman in adream."

"It's no dream. I'll follow her. I'll track her."

"Then, by Jove, you'll have to take me with you, old boy! I see you'renot fit to take care of yourself. I'll have to go and keep you fromharm."

"You won't keep me from harm, old chap," said Dacres, more gently;"but I'd be glad if you would go. So come along."

"I will, by Jove!"

[Illustration: "I WATCHED HIM."]

CHAPTER XX.

THE BARON'S WOES.

Dacres was not the only excited visitor that Hawbury had that day.Before its close another made his appearance in the person of theBaron.

"Why, Minnie; that's the row. There ain't another thing on this greenearth that would trouble me for five seconds."

"Minnie? Oh! And what has happened--a lover's quarrel?"

"Not a quarrel. _She's_ all right."

"What is it, then?"

"Why, she's disappeared."

"Disappeared! What do you mean by that?"

"Darn me if I know. I only know this, that they keep their placebolted and barred, and they've muffled the bell, and there's noservant to be seen, and I can't find out any thing about them. Andit's too almighty bad. Now isn't it?"

"Course I did; and crossed his palm, too. But he didn't give me anysatisfaction."

"What did he say?"

"Why, he said they were at home, for they had been out in the morning,and had got back again. Well, after that I went back and nearlyknocked the door down. And that was no good; I didn't get a word. Theconcierge swore they were in, and they wouldn't so much as answer me.Now I call that too almighty hard, and I'd like to know what inthunder they all mean by it."

"By Jove! odd, too."

"Well, you know, I thought after a while that it would be allexplained the next day; so I went home and waited, and came back thenext afternoon. I tried it over again. Same result. I spoke to theconcierge again, and he swore again that they were all in. They hadbeen out in the morning, he said, and looked well. They had come homeby noon, and had gone to their rooms. Well, I really did start thedoor that time, but didn't get any answer for my pains."

"By Jove!"

"Well, I was pretty hard up, I tell you. But I wasn't going to giveup. So I staid there, and began a siege. I crossed the concierge'spalm again, and was in and out all night. Toward morning I took a napin his chair. He thought it was some government business or other, andassisted me all he could. I didn't see any thing at all though, exceptan infernal Italian--a fellow that came calling the first day I wasthere, and worked himself in between me and Min. He was prowling aboutthere, with another fellow, and stared hard at me. I watched him, andsaid nothing, for I wanted to find out his little game. He's up tosomething, I swear. When he saw I was on the ground, though, he beat aretreat.

"Well, I staid all night, and the next morning watched again. I didn'tknock. It wasn't a bit of use--not a darned bit.

"Well, about nine o'clock the door opened, and I saw some one lookingout very cautiously. In a minute I was standing before her, and heldout my hand to shake hers. It was the old lady. But she didn't shakehands. She looked at me quite coolly.

"'Good-morning, ma'am,' said I, in quite a winning voice.'Good-morning, ma'am.'

"'Good-morning,' she said.

"'I come to see Minnie,' said I.

"'To see Minnie!' said she: and then she told me she wasn't up.

"'Ain't up?' said I; 'and it so bright and early! Why, what's got her?Well, you just go and tell her _I'm_ here, and I'll just step insideand wait till she comes down,' said I.

"But the old lady didn't budge.

"'I'm not a servant,' she said, very stiff; 'I'm her aunt, and herguardian, and I allow no messages to pass between her and strangegentlemen.'

"'Strange gentlemen!' I cried. 'Why, ain't I engaged to her?'

"'I don't know you,' says she.

"'Wasn't I introduced to you?' says I.

"'No,' says she; 'I don't know you.'"

[Illustration: "BUT I SAVED HER LIFE."]

"'But I'm engaged to Minnie,' says I.

"'I don't recognize you,' says she. 'The family know nothing aboutyou; and my niece is a silly girl, who is going back to her father,who will probably send her to school.'

"'But I saved her life,' says I.

"'That's very possible,' says she; 'many persons have done so; yetthat gives you no right to annoy her; and you shall _not_ annoy her.Your engagement is an absurdity. The child herself is an absurdity._You_ are an absurdity. Was it not you who was creating such afrightful disturbance here yesterday? Let me inform you, Sir, that ifyou repeat it, you will be handed over to the police. The police wouldcertainly have been called yesterday had we not wished to avoidhurting your feelings. We now find that you have no feelings to hurt.'

"'Very well, ma'am,' says I; 'these are your views; but as you are notMinnie, I don't accept them. I won't retire from the field till I heara command to that effect from Minnie herself. I allow no relatives tostand between me and my love. Show me Minnie, and let me hear what shehas to say. That's all I ask, and that's fair and square.'

"'You shall not see her at all,' says the old lady, quite mild; 'notat all. You must not come again, for you will not be admitted. Policewill be here to put you out if you attempt to force an entrance as youdid before.'

"'Force an entrance!' I cried.

"'Yes,' she said, 'force an entrance. You did so, and you filled thewhole house with your shouts. Is that to be borne? Not by us, Sir. Andnow go, and don't disturb us any more.'

"Well, I'll be darned if I ever felt so cut up in my life. The oldlady was perfectly calm and cool; wasn't a bit scared--though therewas no reason why she should be. She just gave it to me that way. Butwhen she accused me of forcing an entrance and kicking up a row, I wasstruck all of a heap and couldn't say a word. _Me_ force an entrance!_Me_ kick up a row! And in Minnie's house! Why, the old woman's mad!

"Well, the old lady shut the door in my face, and I walked off; andI've been ever since trying to understand it, but I'll be darned if Ican make head or tail of it. The only thing I see is that they're allkeeping Minnie locked up away from me. They don't like me, though whythey don't I can't see; for I'm as good as any body, and I've beenparticular about being civil to all of them. Still they don't like me,and they see that Minnie does, and they're trying to break up theengagement. But by the living jingo!" and the Baron clinched agood-sized and very sinewy fist, which he brought down hard on thetable--"by the living jingo, they'll find they can't come it over_me_! No, _Sir_!"

"Is she fond of you--Miss Fay, I mean?"

"Fond! Course she is. She dotes on me."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure! As sure as I am of my own existence. Why, the way she looks atme is enough! She has a look of helpless trust, an innocentconfidence, a tender, child-like faith and love, and a beseeching,pleading, imploring way that tells me she is mine through andthrough."

Hawbury was a little surprised. He thought he had heard something likethat before.

"Oh, well," said he, "that's the chief thing, you know. If you're sureof the girl's affections, the battle's half won."

"Half won! Ain't it all won?"

"Well, not exactly. You see, with us English, there are ever so manyconsiderations."

"But with us Americans there is only one consideration, and that is,Do you love me? Still, if her relatives are particular about dollars,I can foot up as many thousands as her old man, I dare say; and then,if they care for rank, why, I'm a Baron!"

"Hawbury," said he, "that's good in you. We've tried one another,haven't we? You're a brick! And I don't need _you_ to tell _me_ whatyou think of me. But if you could get a word into the ear of thatcantankerous old lady, and just let her know what _you_ know about me,it might move her. You see you're after her style, and I'm not; andshe can't see any thing but a man's manner, which, after all, variesin all countries. Now if you could speak a word for me, Hawbury--"

"By Jove! my dear fellow, I'd be glad to do so--I swear I would; butyou don't appear to know that I won't have the chance. They're allgoing to leave Rome to-morrow morning."

The Baron started as though he had been shot.

"What!" he cried, hoarsely. "What's that? Leave Rome?"

"Yes."

"And to-morrow morning?"

"Yes; Miss Fay told me herself--"

"Miss Fay told you herself! By Heaven! What do they mean by that?" Andthe Baron sat trembling with excitement.

"Well, the holy week's over."

"Darn it all, that's got nothing to do with it! It's me! They'retrying to get her from me! How are they going? Do you know?"

"They are going in a carriage by the way of Civita Castellana."

"In a carriage by the way of Civita Castellana! Darn that old idiot ofa woman! what's she up to now? If she's running away from me, she'llwish herself back before she gets far on that road. Why, there's aninfernal nest of brigands there that call themselves Garibaldians;and, by thunder, the woman's crazy! They'll be seized and held toransom--perhaps worse. Heavens! I'll go mad! I'll run and tell them.But no; they won't see me. What'll I do? And Minnie! I can't give herup. She can't give me up. She's a poor, trembling little creature; herwhole life hangs on mine. Separation from me would kill her. Poorlittle girl! Separation! By thunder, they shall never separate us!What devil makes the old woman go by that infernal road? Brigands allthe way! But I'll go after them; I'll follow them. They'll find italmighty hard work to keep her from me! I'll see her, by thunder! andI'll get her out of their clutches! I swear I will! I'll bring herback here to Rome, and I'll get the Pope himself to bind her to mewith a knot that all the old women under heaven can never loosen!"

"What! You're going? By Jove! that's odd, for I'm going with a friendon the same road."

"Good again! Three cheers! And you'll see the old woman, and speak agood word for me?"

"If I see her and get a chance, I certainly will, by Jove!"

CHAPTER XXI.

AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.

On the day following two carriages rolled out of Rome, and took theroad toward Florence by the way of Civita Castellana. One carriageheld four ladies; the other one was occupied by four lady's-maids andthe luggage of the party.

It was early morning, and over the wide Campagna there still hungmists, which were dissipated gradually as the sun arose. As they wenton the day advanced, and with the departing mists there opened up awide view. On either side extended the desolate Campagna, over whichpassed lines of ruined aqueducts on their way from the hills to thecity. Here and there crumbling ruins arose above the plain--someancient, others medieval, none modern. Before them, in the distance,arose the Apennines, among which were, here and there, visible thewhite outlines of some villa or hamlet.

For mile after mile they drove on; and the drive soon proved verymonotonous. It was nothing but one long and unvarying plain, with thisonly change, that every mile brought them nearer to the mountains. Asthe mountains were their only hope, they all looked forward eagerly tothe time when they would arrive there and wind along the road amongthem.

Formerly Mrs. Willoughby alone had been the confidante of Minnie'ssecret, but the events of the past few days had disclosed most of hertroubles to the other ladies also, at least as far as the generaloutlines were concerned. The consequence was, that they all knewperfectly well the reason why they were traveling in this way, andMinnie knew that they all knew it. Yet this unpleasant consciousnessdid not in the least interfere with the sweetness of her temper andthe gentleness of her manner. She sat there, with a meek smile and aresigned air, as though the only part now left her in life was thepatient endurance of her unmerited wrongs. She blamed no one; she madeno complaint; yet there was in her attitude something so touching, soclinging, so pathetic, so forlorn, and in her face something so sweet,so sad, so reproachful, and so piteous, that she enforced sympathy;and each one began to have a half-guilty fear that Minnie had beenwronged by her. Especially did Mrs. Willoughby feel this. She fearedthat she had neglected the artless and simple-minded child; she fearedthat she had not been sufficiently thoughtful about her; and nowlonged to do something to make amends for this imaginary neglect. Soshe sought to make the journey as pleasant as possible by cheerfulremarks and lively observations. None of these things, however,produced any effect upon the attitude of Minnie. She sat there, withunalterable sweetness and unvarying patience, just like a holy martyr,who freely forgave all her enemies, and was praying for those who haddespitefully used her.

[Illustration: THE PROCESSION ACROSS THE CAMPAGNA.]

The exciting events consequent upon the Baron's appearance, and hissudden revelation in the role of Minnie's lover, had exercised astrong and varied effect upon all; but upon one its result was whollybeneficial, and this was Ethel. It was so startling and so unexpectedthat it had roused her from her gloom, and given her something tothink of. The Baron's debut in their parlor had been narrated to herover and over by each of the three who had witnessed it, and each gavethe narrative her own coloring. Lady Dalrymple's account was humorous;Mrs. Willoughby's indignant; Minnie's sentimental. Out of all theseEthel gained a fourth idea, compounded of these three, which againblended with another, and an original one of her own, gained from apersonal observation of the Baron, whose appearance on the stairs andimpatient summons for "Min" were very vividly impressed on her memory.In addition to this there was the memory of that day on which theyendeavored to fight off the enemy.

That was, indeed, a memorable day, and was now alluded to by them allas the day of the siege. It was not without difficulty that they hadwithstood Minnie's earnest protestations, and intrenched themselves.But Mrs. Willoughby was obdurate, and Minnie's tears, which flowedfreely, were unavailing.

Then there came the first knock of the impatient and aggressivevisitor, followed by others in swift succession, and inever-increasing power. Every knock went to Minnie's heart. It excitedan unlimited amount of sympathy for the one who had saved her life,and was now excluded from her door. But as the knocks grew violent andimperative, and Minnie grew sad and pitiful, the other ladies grewindignant. Lady Dalrymple was on the point of sending off for thepolice, and only Minnie's frantic entreaties prevented this. At lastthe door seemed almost beaten in, and their feelings underwent achange. They were convinced that he was mad, or else intoxicated. Ofthe madness of love they did not think. Once convinced that he wasmad, they became terrified. The maids all hid themselves. None of themnow would venture out even to call the police. They expected that theconcierge would interpose, but in vain. The concierge was bribed.

After a very eventful day night came. They heard footsteps pacing upand down, and knew that it was their tormentor. Minnie's heart againmelted with tender pity for the man whose love for her had turned hishead, and she begged to be allowed to speak to him. But this was notpermitted. So she went to bed and fell asleep. So, in process of time,did the others, and the night passed without any trouble. Then morningcame, and there was a debate as to who should confront the enemy.There was no noise, but they knew that he was there. At last LadyDalrymple summoned up her energies, and went forth to do battle. Theresult has already been described in the words of the bold Baronhimself.

But even this great victory did not reassure the ladies. Dreadinganother visit, they hurried away to a hotel, leaving the maids tofollow with the luggage as soon as possible. On the following morningthey had left the city.

Events so very exciting as these had produced a very natural effectupon the mind of Ethel. They had thrown her thoughts out of their oldgroove, and fixed them in a new one. Besides, the fact that she wasactually leaving the man who had caused her so much sorrow was alreadya partial relief. She had dreaded meeting him so much that she hadbeen forced to keep herself a prisoner. A deep grief still remained inher heart; but, at any rate, there was now some pleasure to be felt,if only of a superficial kind.

As for Mrs. Willoughby, in spite of her self-reproach about her purelyimaginary neglect of Minnie, she felt such an extraordinary reliefthat it affected all her nature. The others might feel fatigue fromthe journey. Not she. She was willing to continue the journey for anindefinite period, so long as she had the sweet consciousness that shewas bearing Minnie farther and farther away from the grasp of "thathorrid man." The consequence was, that she was lively, lovely,brilliant, cheerful, and altogether delightful. She was as tender toMinnie as a mother could be. She was lavish in her promises of whatshe would do for her. She chatted gayly with Ethel about a thousandthings, and was delighted to find that Ethel reciprocated. She ralliedLady Dalrymple on her silence, and congratulated her over and over, inspite of Minnie's frowns, on the success of her generalship. And so atlast the weary Campagna was traversed, and the two carriages began toascend among the mountains.

Several other travelers were passing over that Campagna road, and inthe same direction. They were not near enough for their faces to bediscerned, but the ladies could look back and see the signs of theirpresence. First there was a carriage with two men, and about two milesbehind another carriage with two other men; while behind these, again,there rode a solitary horseman, who was gradually gaining on the othertravelers.

Now, if it had been possible for Mrs. Willoughby to look back anddiscern the faces of the travelers who were moving along the roadbehind her, what a sudden overturn there would have been in herfeelings, and what a blight would have fallen upon her spirits! ButMrs. Willoughby remained in the most blissful ignorance of the personsof these travelers, and so was able to maintain the sunshine of hersoul.

At length there came over that sunny soul the first cloud.

The solitary horseman, who had been riding behind, had overtaken thedifferent carriages.

The first carriage contained Lord Hawbury and Scone Dacres. As thehorseman passed, he recognized them with a careless nod and smile.

Scone Dacres grasped Lord Hawbury's arm.

"Did you see him?" he cried. "The Italian! I thought so! What do yousay now? Wasn't I right?"

The horseman rode on further, and overtook the next carriage. In thisthere were two men, one in the uniform of the Papal Zouaves, the otherin rusty black. He turned toward these, and greeted them with the samenod and smile.

"Do you see that man, parson?" said the Baron to his companion. "Doyou recognize him?"

"No."

"Well, you saw him at Minnie's house. He came in."

"No, he didn't."

"Didn't he? No. By thunder, it wasn't that time. Well, at any rate,that man, I believe, is at the bottom of the row. It's my belief thathe's trying to cut me out, and he'll find he's got a hard row to hoebefore he succeeds in that project."

And with these words the Baron sat glaring after the Italian, withsomething in his eye that resembled faintly the fierce glance of SconeDacres.

The Italian rode on. A few miles further were the two carriages.Minnie and her sister were sitting on the front seats, and saw thestranger as he advanced. He soon came near enough to be distinguished,and Mrs. Willoughby recognized Girasole.

Her surprise was so great that she uttered an exclamation of terror,which startled the other ladies, and made them all look in thatdirection.

"How very odd!" said Ethel, thoughtfully.

"And now I suppose you'll all go and say that I brought _him_ too,"said Minnie. "That's _always_ the way you do. You _never_ seem tothink that I may be innocent. You _always_ blame me for every littlemite of a thing that may happen."

No one made any remark, and there was silence in the carriage as thestranger approached. The ladies bowed somewhat coolly, except Minnie,who threw upon him the most imploring look that could possibly be sentfrom human eyes, and the Italian's impressible nature thrilled beforethose beseeching, pleading, earnest, unfathomable, tender, helpless,innocent orbs. Removing his hat, he bowed low.

"I haf not been awara," he said, politely, in his broken English,"that youar ladysippa's bin intend to travalla. Ees eet not subitointenzion?"

Mrs. Willoughby made a polite response of a general character, theItalian paused a moment to drink in deep draughts from Minnie's greatbeseeching eyes that were fixed upon his, and then, with a low bow, hepassed on.

"I believe I'm losing my senses," said Mrs. Willoughby.

"Why, Kitty darling?" asked Minnie.

"I don't know how it is, but I actually trembled when that man cameup, and I haven't got over it yet."

"Well, really, I don't see much in the Count to make one tremble. Isuppose poor dear Kitty has been too much agitated lately, and it'sher poor nerves."

"I have my lavender, Kitty dear," said Lady Dalrymple. "Won't you takeit? Or would you prefer valerian?"

"Thanks, much, but I do not need it," said Mrs. Willoughby. "I supposeit will pass off."

"I'm sure the poor Count never did any body any harm," said Minnie,plaintively; "so you needn't all abuse him so--unless you're all angryat him for saving my life. I remember a time when you all thought verydifferently, and all praised him up, no end."

"Really, Minnie darling, I have nothing against the Count, only oncehe was a little too intrusive; but he seems to have got over that; andif he'll only be nice and quiet and proper, I'm sure I've nothing tosay against him."

They drove on for some time, and at length reached Civita Castellana.Here they drove up to the hotel, and the ladies got out and went up totheir apartments. They had three rooms up stairs, two of which lookedout into the street, while the third was in the rear. At the frontwindows was a balcony.

The ladies now disrobed themselves, and their maids assisted them toperform the duties of a very simple toilet. Mrs. Willoughby's wasfirst finished. So she walked over to the window, and looked out intothe street.

It was not a very interesting place, nor was there much to be seen;but she took a lazy, languid interest in the sight which met her eyes.There were the two carriages. The horses were being led to water.Around the carriages was a motley crowd, composed of the poor, themaimed, the halt, the blind, forming that realm of beggars which fromimmemorial ages has flourished in Italy. With these was intermingled acrowd of ducks, geese, goats, pigs, and ill-looking, mangy, snarlingcurs.

Upon these Mrs. Willoughby looked for some time, when at length herears were arrested by the roll of wheels down the street. A carriagewas approaching, in which there were two travelers. One hasty glancesufficed, and she turned her attention once more to the ducks, geese,goats, dogs, and beggars. In a few minutes the crowd was scattered bythe newly-arrived carriage. It stopped. A man jumped out. For a momenthe looked up, staring hard at the windows. That moment was enough.Mrs. Willoughby had recognized him.

She rushed away from the windows. Lady Dalrymple and Ethel were inthis room, and Minnie in the one beyond. All were startled by Mrs.Willoughby's exclamation, and still more by her looks.

"Oh!" she cried.

"What?" cried they. "What is it?"

"_He's_ there! _He's_ there!"

"Who? who?" they cried, in alarm.

"That horrid man!"

Lady Dalrymple and Ethel looked at one another in utter horror.

As for Minnie, she burst into the room, peeped out of the windows, saw"that horrid man," then ran back, then sat down, then jumped up, andthen burst into a peal of the merriest laughter that ever was heardfrom her.

But while Minnie laughed thus, the others looked at each other instill greater consternation, and for some time there was not one ofthem who knew what to say.

But Lady Dalrymple again threw herself in the gap.

"You need not feel at all nervous, my dears," said she, gravely. "I donot think that this person can give us any trouble. He certainly cannot intrude upon us in these apartments, and on the highway, you know,it will be quite as difficult for him to hold any communication withus. So I really don't see any cause for alarm on your part, nor do Isee why dear Minnie should exhibit such delight."

These words brought comfort to Ethel and Mrs. Willoughby. They at onceperceived their truth. To force himself into their presence in apublic hotel was, of course, impossible, even for one so reckless ashe seemed to be; and on the road he could not trouble them in any way,since he would have to drive before them or behind them.

At Lady Dalrymple's reference to herself, Minnie looked up with abright smile.

"You're awfully cross with me, aunty darling," she said; "but Iforgive you. Only I can't help laughing, you know, to see howfrightened you all are at poor Rufus K. Gunn. And, Kitty dearest, ohhow you _did_ run away from the window! It was awfully funny, youknow."

Not long after the arrival of the Baron and his friends anothercarriage drove up. None of the ladies were at the window, and so theydid not see the easy nonchalance of Hawbury as he lounged into thehouse, or the stern face of Scone Dacres as he strode before him.